I Want To
by Dragon
Summary: Someone ripped a few pages out of Schuldig's journal! Do you dare delve into his mind? Warning: Sex and lots of it


By: Dragon-chan  
  
Author's Note: This was a result of inspiration (read: sexual frustration) at four am. Schuldig dug his claws into my brain, I wrote it, then typed it up and reread it. Any comments or criticism is welcome.  
  
Warnings: NC-17. Sex with a capital "S". And bondage. Schuldig is a kinky little devil.  
  
I want to fuck you, Brad. I woke up this morning with an urge, an umistakable urge. It is that urge which drives me to chain Aya to our bed for hours on end while you're at work. That urge which drives me to call you when I'm hand-fucking him with a vibrating dildo or spanking him thoroughly and leave dirty messages on your voicemail. But Aya isn't here, Brad, he hasn't been here for the past week. He's in Japan visiting his sister, and Omi, and all the people we left behind.  
  
But I still have the urge—the urge to dominate. I need to see that look of sweet submission in his violet eyes, or in your gold ones. I need to hear those pleading whimpers. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones where you're struggling with all your might because you absolutely *need* me to touch you, to fuck you, anything, as long as I stop using you as my fucking *slut*. I want helplessness. I want to see you tied spread-eagled to our bed. I want to see your confusion and annoyance when I take my razor and cut those red flannel pajamas you love so much to pieces, pulling those pieces off of you and exposing your tanned body. I want to hear you gasp and moan for me. I want to fuck you all day.  
  
'Take a day off work, liebe,' I'd hiss. I'd tie your arms behind youyour back, and your legs in a kneeling position—tie you to the legs of the kitchen table, and force you to suck me off. Maybe I'd leave you there for a few hours while I exercise, make myself breakfast, do my normal morning routine. Of course, I'd gag you when I didn't want your mouth. Those heart-breakingly pouty lips of yours would look stunning stretched around an almost too-large ball-gag, don't you think? Or maybe a nice, thick cock-gag would be in order. It would be good practice after all, while you're on your knees, wondering how and when I'd use you next. Then, ah liebe, the possibilities!  
  
I want you spread on the kitchen table next. You'd look good enough to eat! That is, of course, if I wasn't feeling so cruel. No release for you, yet, I'm afraid. Instead, you'd be spread out so I could toy with you, tease, because I know you'd be hard. You wouldn't be able to stand it, to see me naked, to have me fucking your mouth and touching you, teasing you. I think I'd add nipple clamps then. You're so wonderfully sensetive there, just the littlest touch will break you down! I'd pinch and twist and torment them until you're writhing. And I know the helpless outrage in your eyes as I place the clamps on your poor, abused nipples would make me even hotter. I know you hate waiting, Brad, so I'd bring out three or four different dildos. Maybe a vibrator and an inflatable plug too. I'd leave them out on the table for you to contemplate. That will make you moan behind the gag—I love those soft, spidery moans you make when you're afraid, and you *will* be afraid of me then, make no mistake. I'm in the throes of *that* urge and it doesn't release its hold lightly.  
  
I want to mark, to take you, but instead I'd move you to the foyer, tie you up in the doorway so you can watch me move through the apartment. I'd decide then which dildo to use. Maybe you could influence me—the tilt of your head, a twitch of your hips, a tiny, breathless moan... but probably not. I'd want to ravish you, but instead I'd slick up the dildo, slowly, so you can see every gleaming inch, and walk around behind you.  
  
I want to watch you struggle. You know I'd take you, mind, body, and soul, but you'd never give in without a fight. We both would know it was all over when the dildo ever so slowly opens you wide for me, but you'd still buck your hips and protest behind the gag. Because you know I love it, love it when you fight me, fight my control over you. I'd push it all the way in, securely, deep inside you, and reach around to tug the nipple clamps. Just to watch you jump.  
  
Then I'd leave you alone, full on both ends and straining for me to touch you. You know you'd hear music from the bedroom, *my* bedroom for today. Feral fuck music—Rammstein, NIN, Lords of Acid, and you'll know I'm dancing the way I always love to dance. Shirt undone, jeans unbuttoned, hair swinging loose and brushing my chest. Sensual. I'd wish you were free to touch me, to dance, but I like you better watchin, waiting, desperate for my moods to change, and the track will change and I will walk out into the hall, still dancing, a slender paddle in my hand. It won't look like much , just a slim, black piece of wood, unassuming in its simplicity. But you'd learn better as I step behind you again and smack you rapidly, warming your ass with quick snaps of the paddle and forcing the plug deep as you shift, trying to escape my stinging slaps. You're not Aya. There's no one coming home from work to save *you* from this torture. Would you rather I spank you with my bare hand? I could do that if you prefer. Your firm ass would flex beneath my unsympathetic hand. In this mood you know I wouldn't stop until your ass is crimson, until you're bucking and begging, promising me *anything* as long as I stop your torment. You'd still be hard, Brad, perfect and needing me. You'd arch up to my touch. I want to touch, I want to claim.  
  
You're being untied now—that doesn't mean I'm done with you. Arms securely tied behind your back, I'd snap the paddle at you. I know that by then the merest touch of the wooden thing will drive you wherever I want you to go. Into the bedroom, then. You can't hide your thoughts from me as you wonder whether I'll fuck you, give you release. Onto the bed. On your hands and knees. The commands sharp. And you'll look perfect—round, muscular assdancing in the air for me. Oh, Brad, you know I can't resist touching your body when it's on display for me, and on display you would be—ass up, arms tied back too tightly, legs spread sweetly. I'd release your nipples from the clamps, massage the poor nubs. You'd moan pathetically at me behind your gag—I know how sensetive they are, Brad. You'd cry for me, if your pride allowed it, as long as I promise to take those clamps off. Then the dildo. How I want to hear you moan as I empty you, my love, breathy and hopeless.  
  
I'd fuck you then, hard and feral. I'd suck on your nck, bite you, tease you, mark you as mine utterly, until you're in a frenzy. Behind the gag I can hear the continuous cries as you beg me without words to let you cum. My hands don't move from your hips as I slam in and fill you with my seed. And only then would I untie you, unfasten the gag from your sore lips. Bring yourself off, liebe. I want to watch. I'd see in your eyes how thoroughly I'd have won. You're mine. But, you know, you always know, damn you, Brad, that in taking your body, your heart, I've given you mine in return. 


End file.
